Vanilla
by Ella Diver Sophis
Summary: Morrigan's prequel run-in with Snape. A little sensual. *rr*


  
Fics: Harry Potter: Vanilla  
Ella/Snape  
PG-13. Romance & Drama  
Disclaimer: I so do not own these characters.  
Read & Review.. Feedback whore grazing.   
main I walked into his office after dinner in my good robes. Not my showy ones: he wouldn't see them, not really. Not my best ones. He would be freaked, confused. Not new, not ordinary: Ravenclaw colours draped overmy body and poured over my curves. I was in black, bias-cut; flowing, rippling and dry fluid black. On top, a blue jumper.  
It was unlike him. Vanilla, his skin. He did not smile as he found me on the outside of his door, His rippling cloak shushed as I entered. I wished I could mirror him, and maybe that would pelase him, or at least ease his expression. Vanilla, creamhis throat, bare against my eyes and the black like cold. Little pieces of vanilla cream wrapped in wavy black.  
"How can I help you?," he said to me, purring, and turning his back. He stood straight. His cloak dropped straight down from his shoulders. He sat in a chair, on worn leather snapped down with round brass studs. He looked at me with custom bored eyes. He was a good teacher, though suited to older classes, the older and more in tune to his dry wit.   
"I came to enquire as to whether or notyou think I should remain for Christmas.."  
As I spoke, he pulled his cloak away tiredly to show his high-collared white shirt and waistcoat. He undid the top two buttons thoughtlessly, barely hearing a thing, pen still in hand, eyes flickering mildly over unmarked papers. One hand flicked his black hair behind on ear. I could have reached out and touched..  
He marked more of the essay with a look of bothered perplexon, unheeding.  
"Well," he said eventually, scrawling away between words, "if you want to know my opion, you ought to stay. Imagine! All that way, just for a few weeks. You may, but it shan't do you any good, Greendive. If," he said carefully, watching me fully with black eyes as stirring as black night, "if you should feel the urge to return home at this crucial moment in your studies:" I could barely watch him any further, he was so great and terrible and handsome, swoonsome and stunning. He left the end of his sentence to the imagination and turned back down to the papers.   
"Perhaps you will miss important opportunities for the sake of a turkey dinner. Come here," he commanded, and I drew close to his table. "Here," he repeated, low.  
The work he marked was my own. I flushed red instantly. However it bore more encouragement and agreement than my last.  
"Miss Greendive, this is a word or two short of a marvel. I would advise you without hesitation to stay and study further what you have begun to dwell on. I was, to say the least, rather surprised by the standard of your commentary."  
He looked at me, and I bubbled with pride. Seeing this, he moved slightly, paused, then opened a drawer on the opposite side of him from me. He produced a vanilla pod.  
I watched his cold, cream hands split it from the centre. It was wavy and smooth. His fingers ran along it so carefully, fragile with its contents.  
Then, from between his thumbs, I saw a mix of beans and white pulp. He took some on to one fingertip and showed me. I could smell the thick, heavy, immensely sweet scent as soon as it touched the air. We avoided each others' eyes, but slowly, with a quivering hand, he raised his prone finger to my lips. I felt it press and part my lips. Then my mouth was suddenly aglow with something sweeter than sugar. Just as the warmth enveloped him, he slipped his fingertip out, still hot and wet. I felt something like guilt rinse me through.   
  
* * *  
  
The first time I saw him, he was free.  
I had been walking out early to find Madame Pomfrey, and I found him washing from a porcelain bowl. He ran his hands over his arms and bare shoulders, stroking his stomach with swift fingers in the morning light. Then he was vanilla: half white his skin, his exposed expanse in the cold room, matching the still-hung moon in the corner of the window frame. Half-black his eyes, glitning, and his hair faling across his cheek.  
On seeing me he had first turned colours over in his blush, spoiling the sharpness of his portrait and his fine lines. Then he reprimanded me in a low, quiet voice, and sent me off.   
Now I took his hand in mine, and pressed hiswhite knuckles to my lips. He looked off, lost to shame and guilt.  
"I love you," I said quickly. "And I do; don't take me for a fool. Just because I love you."  
I drew ever closer to him, and he rose, protesting, ringing in his ears telling his to stop wait, think, who is this? I pressed my lips to his neck, and heard a deep, rumbling purr in his white throat.  
"There." Perhaps I was crying, but it was done now. His hand, which could have been shivering, or shaking, laid itself on my head. "There," he repeated. email me  
  
  



End file.
